


And the Battleships Will Sink Beneath the Waves

by notexactlycappuccinointheclouds



Series: Neal Caffrey dies every month of 2021 [2]
Category: White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Gen, Killing a character once a month (2021)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:36:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29559906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notexactlycappuccinointheclouds/pseuds/notexactlycappuccinointheclouds
Summary: Alternate ending to Under the Radar in which the warehouse explosion was a little more destructive.
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Series: Neal Caffrey dies every month of 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2131542
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13
Collections: Killing a character once a month of 2021





	And the Battleships Will Sink Beneath the Waves

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the “Killing a character once a month 2021” challenge by Dorthea. Specifically, the near death experience prompt.  
> The title is from "My Tears Ricochet" by Taylor Swift.

  
Neal had been too close to the blast. He’d accepted that in the last flash of consciousness before everything went black. 

  
He woke up to a thick haze of smoke and the smell of burning paint. He stared up at a grey-filtered sky and imagined the steady rise and fall of his chest. But he couldn’t feel anything. If he was still breathing, he couldn’t tell. Some voice of reason far away and still half-asleep, reminded him that there was smoke. When you breathe in smoke, it hurts. It takes sandpaper to your lungs and heaves your entire chest into a coughing fit. But he didn’t feel any of that. If anything, he felt suspended — in air, in time. He couldn’t even hear himself think, not in any solid way. No internal monologue hounding him through each movement and moment. It’d been replaced with a high-pitched ringing reverberating in his head. It mimicked the resonance of a church bell in a steeple after it’s been rung for morning mass. Except louder and more viscous and trapped inside Neal’s skull.  
With a surge of panic, Neal descended back into the shallow end of consciousness. The details of the world cleared around him. The warehouse was burning. He was on the ground, having been tossed back by the blast. His ribs screamed at him. As he pushed himself off the cement, clumsily adjusting on his aching hands, every vertebrae in his spine caught fire in his back. He bit back a gasp.   
Across from him, Adler moved. First just a twitching of his fingers. Then he lifted his head and curled in on himself through a heaving cough. His eyes wandered from the warehouse to Neal and back again. Adler picked himself up, unsteady and balancing on a badly injured ankle, but standing. Neal knew that he wasn’t a man looking for a fight. He was a man looking for a kill.   
Neal made it to his feet, battling waves of nausea and chest-crushing fits of coughing. Adler was saying something. He’d drawn his gun, pointing it straight at Neal. The world was heavy and Adler’s words were drowned out by that reverberation in Neal’s head. Neal watched him like watching a film actor on mute. All gestures and scenery, but dead quiet. That gun though, it didn’t matter if Neal could hear it or not. Bullets don’t slow down so you can get your bearings. He tried to make himself say something, but the words wouldn’t form.   
The first sound to break through the ringing in his head was a gunshot. It sounded drawn out and distorted. Adler collapsed in front of him, knees giving out as the light in his eyes shut down. Peter stood a few paces away, gun still in hand. Classic Peter — the hero, always saving the day. He approached, cautious as ever. He took a moment to shoe the weapon out of Adler’s dead fingers.   
Peter’s voice cut through, “What did he mean you won’t get away with this?”. Neal blinked. The words didn’t process for a few seconds. He was missing context. His best answer was a raspy “I don’t know.” Peter nodded. “I’m glad you’re alright.”   
Like a stop-motion film missing some frames, time jumped ahead by a few seconds. Jones and Diana were there. Jones and Peter were talking. Diana reached for Neal’s arm. “Let’s get you home.” He followed her to the car. He wasn’t sure if he had said anything. But either way, she didn’t seem to mind.   
Neal watched the ground as he walked. The cement was drunk beneath him, it moved like the waves. He thought he might fall into it. 

“Neal.” Peter’s voice drew his attention. The man was motioning to him. Neal approached, pulling himself together enough to appear casual.   
Peter shook his head. “You did this.” He gestured at the mess of the warehouse. “The fire, all of it. You did it.” He had all the sternness of a disappointed father, or maybe a hangman. Neal could never tell.   
“Peter, those were masterpieces. I would never burn them. You know that.”   
Peter smiled, grim and cynical. “No but you’d steal them… The long con on Adler finally paid off, didn’t it? You saw your chance and you took it.”   
Neal breathed, “No.”  
Peter’s voice continued, “I don’t know how. I don’t know what game you’re playing here.”   
Neal’s fingers curled and his nails dug into his palms. “I didn’t steal the art.”   
“I think you did.” From Peter’s mouth, it sounded like a string of curse words. It tasted like dishwater.   
Neal watched the world sway around him. His pulse pounded his head. He shot back, “Then prove it.”   
And Neal walked away, keeping his shoulders square and his back straight. He kept his breathing shallow. Shallow enough that he wouldn’t double-over. He walked and kept walking. Peter disappeared behind him. So did the smoke of the burnt warehouse. He made it to Manhattan.  
The city and all its skyscrapers spun around him. He stumbled across the street, wincing as car horns blared in his direction. Everything was too loud. And too bright. He stepped into an alleyway and leaned against a wall. Sweat beaded down his neck. The taste of copper crept up his throat.   
He lowered himself down till he was sitting on the cement. He fumbled in his pockets for his phone. His hands had picked up a shake. Made dialing a task. But he only needed three numbers. He listened to the ringing.   
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”  
“This is Neal Caffrey. I’m… I don’t know where I am —” He paused to ride out a wave of nausea. “I think I need an ambulance.”   
The 9-1-1 operator said something. Neal couldn’t focus on her words. He let the phone fall to the side.   
He imagined Peter’s voice in his head, telling him to stay awake.

***

Peter Burke had always seen Neal as invincible. Maybe not exactly bulletproof, but as close as any human being could get. Neal jumped out of windows and there was always a miraculous canopy to catch him. He stared down barrels and walked away unscathed.  
That idea didn’t match with the reality of things. Peter knew that one day he would have to accept it: Neal was gone. Peter would never get a chance to apologize. After everything, Peter hadn’t saved Neal. Peter hadn’t even realized Neal needed saving. And now Neal was gone. Peter knew that he had to accept it, mostly because people kept telling him. But trying to accept that Neal didn’t exist in this world anymore was like trying to accept a tomorrow in which the sun doesn’t rise. Acceptance is laughable. Acceptance is giving up. 


End file.
